


This Crooked Posture

by Astrum_Ululatum



Series: Precious Metals [7]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Amputee Percival Graves, Angst with a Happy Ending, Deaf Character, Deaf Percival Graves, F/M, Family Issues, Leta Lestrange Tries Her Best, M/M, Newt is Done with This Shit, attempted familial bonding, but the angst is pretty mild, disastrous family dinner, protective percival graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 13:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17101427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrum_Ululatum/pseuds/Astrum_Ululatum
Summary: The invitation requests they arrive at five o’clock for dinner at six-thirty. At first, Percival thought this was because Theseus, from what he understands, is an overbearing sibling as well as particularly concerned for Newt’s well-being, especially given recent events. But then Newt begins to drag his feet and in a very Newt-like fashion and Percival understands the cleverness of the timing.- - -Percival and Newt have dinner with Theseus and Leta. It's only a minor train-wreck.





	This Crooked Posture

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Heirloom by Sleeping At Last:
> 
> You try your hardest to leave the past alone  
> This crooked posture is all you’ve ever known  
> It is the consequence of living in between  
> The weight of family and the pull of gravity

_November 1918_

 

Despite the lavish decorations and the low, pleasant music, the mood in the Ministry ballroom is somber. Portraits of cadres of grinning, jostling soldiers line the walls accompanied by tokens left for them by significant others and those who loved them. Generals, colonels, lieutenants, and all the down to the foot soldier drift from portrait to portrait and smile sadly at the preserved unknowing faces of people they walked alongside through Hell itself. Widowed wives and husbands accept condolences with empty eyes and damp cheeks. Those who survived lurk guiltily at the fringes and make as little eye contact with the widows as possible.

Percival Graves is not widowed, but neither does he feel especially guilty for surviving. He dragged himself through mud and blood to stay alive, tried to drag home as many people as he could along the way, and now that he has made it, all he feels is relieved. He stands near a portrait of the unit he belonged to, sees his own face in the midst of those lost, and he sighs.

“Well fought, boys,” he murmurs to them, then tips his glass in a small toast and takes a long drink.

“Are you going to sulk all night, Perry?” asks a familiar and refreshing voice from behind him.

“Phee,” greets Percival, handing off his empty glass to a passing house elf as he turns to face Seraphina Picquery. “Or should I call you Director?”

Seraphina chuckles. “In a few years, I expect it’ll be _President_ , but Director will do for now.”

“Never let it be said you have no ambition,” Percival replies, amused. Seraphina snorts indelicately and pulls up Percival’s arm so she may link it with hers. Without so much as a _by your leave_ , she begins to lead Percival on a slow tour of the banquet hall.

“How are you?” she asks quietly. Quiet, not gentle, because Seraphina does not sugar coat anything and least of all with people who do not need it. Percival appreciates this immensely.

“As well as I can be,” he replies bluntly. “Dreamless Sleep potions most nights and as busy a schedule as I can manage.”

“So, you’ve developed some very healthy coping mechanisms,” says Seraphina dryly.

“Right now the only options we have are to cope and keep going best we can or fade from society and suffer alone.”

Seraphina hums in agreement and leans consolingly against his shoulder. Seraphina stayed in New York during the fighting, running the Law Enforcement office and directing the remaining Aurors in keeping the shaky peace at home. She also, Percival knows, contributed immensely to the war effort in every conceivable way. She is, undeniably, an impressive woman.

They continue their tour of the ballroom in companionable silence and Percival is grateful to have her in his life for the umpteenth time since he met her.

A voice rises above the music and low murmur of solemn conversation. The voice is jovial, accented, and boisterous. Irked, Percival adjusts course to take them closer; he glances over as he does and sees a similar quirk of annoyance in Seraphina’s regal brow. Just before the stage where the band is playing, a cluster of British soldiers is gathered around a redheaded speaker. Percival and Seraphina casually stroll closer until the redhead’s voice clarifies into words.

“…got this list of new spells, all experimental, that the higher-ups want us to test,” the man is saying, clearly in the middle of a very amusing story. He is a pale man, with the same bags under his eyes as every surviving soldier, and his red hair looks like it started the night neatly combed and has since been mussed by up multiple runs of his hand through it. His cheeks are pink and his empty glass telling. “We’re all standing there, no one wants to step up and go first and I just think, _my baby brother is off playing with dragons and I’m too scared to mutter a simple incantation_? Not bloody likely! So, I lift my wand and from the corner of my eye, I see Gethsemane doing that silly sign of the cross thing muggles like to do!” The man’s audience chuckles as one and the man himself grins widely. When the light laughter fades out, the man continues, “Well, I barely finish the first spell on the list when I’m blasted, _actually blasted_ , thirty meters back! Barely manage to catch myself with a cushioning charm and when I pop back to the group, Gethsemane—” the man snorts, already remembering the punchline. “Ruddy Gethsemane, cool as you please, looks up at me and says, ‘Shall I cross that one off the list, sir?’”

The gathered wizards break into teary laughter and the man lifts his empty glass, which has now refilled itself thanks to the house elves in the kitchens, and pronounces Gethsemane’s name with fond pride. The gathering repeats the name and they all take a long drink. The storyteller has the cadence and tone of a man in good spirits, but his eyes, Percival notices as he and Seraphina draw closer, his eyes are dull, lackluster.

He is coping, Percival realizes, and not just that. He’s forcing his way forward and he’s trying to carry as many people with him as he can. Percival and Seraphina make the silent decision to leave him be and turn away.

“Alright, alright,” says the man, detaching himself from the group. “I’ve had a touch too much to drink, I ought to hit the buffet table, yeah?”

He is stepping sideways, head turned to his audience rather than focusing on where he is going. As a result, he steps on the edge of Seraphina’s skirt, yanking her to a graceless halt and causing him to jolt away with profuse apologies. The skirt is only faintly dirtied and Seraphina cleans it with an efficient flick of her wand.

“No harm done, mister…?” She looks at him beseechingly.

“Theseus Scamander,” he says, putting is hand out. He offers no formal or occupational titles; everyone knows of him at this point, but it is clear he does not exclude his accolades out of pride or arrogance. He doesn’t mention them, because they do not matter at the moment.

“Seraphina Picquery,” she returns, taking his hand in a firm clasp. “And my companion.”

“Percival Graves,” Percival slides in smoothly, shaking Theseus’s hand when it is offered to him in turn. “Very nice to meet you.”

“You, as well,” he replies politely. It is painful, almost, how little life there is in this man’s eyes. The war destroyed him, but something else is keeping him going—perhaps the younger brother he mentioned earlier. “Enjoy your evening.”

Percival and Seraphina murmur their thanks and return the sentiment and then they part ways. For the remainder of the night, Theseus’s voice will occasionally rise above the noise, but neither Percival nor Seraphina find it in them to be bothered.

 

\- - -

 

Percival has been on his, for once, not enforced vacation for three days now and his recovery is progressing steadily. He and Newt Portkey’d to London, spent two days being gloriously slothful in Newt’s little London townhouse, and then braved the chilly early-winter weather for lunch on today, the third day. And now they’ve accepted an invitation to dinner with Theseus and his fiancée Leta. According to Newt, Theseus has been pestering him with invitations for weeks and Newt has never had the courage or the desire to accept.

“Leta and I went to school together,” Newt confesses after they’ve shed their winter coats and settled in front of the fireplace. The invitation sits cheerfully on the mantle, reminding them of the encroaching dinner hour. “Theseus is eleven years older than us, so at first he only knew about her because she was my friend.”

Percival sits leaning back on his hands, watching Newt stumble his way through explaining his reluctance to accept a dinner invitation and understanding that he ought not touch just quite yet. Newt is beautiful as ever, but particularly so with the red and golden glow of the fire playing with his hair and highlighting his cheek. So, Percival sits on his hands and admires his love and reads the words as they trip from his lips.

“She, er. Leta was my first kiss,” Newt admits, then immediately ducks his head, then lifts his head back up for Percival’s sake. Percival smiles encouragingly, showing Newt nothing but support and a desire to understand. “And then there was the incident that got me expelled and she just. Let me shoulder all the blame. I don’t really know where she went after that. Well, she travelled to America. But after that.” Newt shrugs a bit helplessly. “I didn’t know she was back in England until Theseus mentioned seeing her in one of his letters. That was a few years ago and now… Well, I haven’t properly spoken to her since Hogwarts. Theseus told me she visited while I was in St. Mungo’s, but never after I woke up.”

There is a great deal of conflict in Newt’s expression: nostalgia for a dear friendship he lost, anxiety at the prospect of seeing her again after so long, confusion about his brother’s feelings for Leta blended with an illogical anger that Theseus would cross a line Newt never even knew existed within himself. He looks so utterly forlorn that Percival cannot refrain any longer. He shifts to sit up, holds out his arms, and Newt crawls gratefully to him.

“It’s okay to be hurt, darling,” Percival murmurs, knowing Newt can hear him and cannot interrupt even if he wants to so long as Percival holds on to him like this. “It’s okay. It isn’t an ideal scenario, but you’ll never get past it until to talk to them about it.”

There is a pause and then Newt wiggles determinedly away, just enough to turn his face for Percival to read him and appreciate his deadpan expression. “If you’re still paying your therapist, you ought to stop. You’re beginning to sound just like her.”

Percival laughs. “I suppose that’s not the worst thing I’ve been called.”

 

\- - -

 

The invitation requests they arrive at five o’clock for dinner at six-thirty. At first, Percival thought this was because Theseus, from what he understands, is an overbearing sibling as well as particularly concerned for Newt’s well-being, especially given recent events. But then Newt begins to drag his feet and in a very Newt-like fashion and Percival understands the cleverness of the timing. At quarter to five, Newt realizes the mooncalves in his basement menagerie haven’t been given their eyedrops yet. At ten- ‘til, he is fussing with the litter of baby nifflers his assistant, Bunty, brought over the other day. He draws this out for precisely ten minutes, giving each of the four infants and their adopted parent, Darby, a thorough belly-rub before sealing their enclosure for the night.

At precisely five o’clock, Percival is watching Newt up close as he ascertains that Daphne has enough space within Percival’s Expanded breast pocket. The redhead is gnawing on his lower lip as his fingers fuss with the lapels of Percival’s waistcoat and occasionally tickle Daphne’s chin when the little occamy peaks out.

 _Then_ Newt has to wash up and change his clothes and he frets and worries his hands the entire time he does this. Free of distractions, the depth of his anxiety begins to show and Percival has to take pity. Despite his (rather fond) aggravation for Newt’s dawdling, Percival coaxes the redhead into sitting and breathing for a few minutes.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it,” he says to the younger man, “but it will be okay. If you’d like, I can pretend to be very bad at lip-reading and we can spend all night blundering through small-talk, you’ll have to sign everything for me and it’ll become an enormous affair that takes up the entire night. Theseus and Leta will be too wrong-footed and embarrassed with themselves to interrogate you about anything.”

Percival means every word. Normally, his pride would disallow such nonsense, but for Newt he would do anything. Even just saying so, apparently, is enough to calm the magizoologist as it has him giggling into his hand. Then Newt makes both hands into fists and crosses them snugly over his chest, eyes fixed on Percival—he is likely the only person Newt is able to comfortably hold extended eye-contact with and Percival is honored beyond words by this. Percival smiles and signs the same back, then cups a gentle hand to the back of Newt’s neck and draws him in for a long, sweet kiss.

“Thank you,” Newt shapes when he leans back.

“Of course, darling,” Percival replies. “Say the word and we’ll leave.”

Newt nods and kisses him again, chastely.

Then, at a quarter ‘til six, they set up the fireplace and Floo to Theseus’s flat in central London. The apartment they arrive in is clean and warm and smells of roasting meat, undercut with something gentle and herbal. Percival was not particularly hungry when they left, but suddenly he finds he is famished. Newt is stiff and fidgety at his side, busying himself with brushing away bits of ash and continuing the motions even after the task is complete. Percival places a comforting hand on Newt’s lower back, but it does little to ease his lover’s tension.

When Theseus Scamander sweeps into the room—dressed sharply in slacks and vest, a crisp white undershirt with the sleeves rolled precisely to his elbows, and his collar undone by a single button—Percival thinks for half a second that they are in the wrong apartment. Then he sees the similarities: the high cheekbones and the cut of the jaw and certainly the mop of reddish curls. Theseus’s are neatly combed and styled away from his face, but the color certainly gives them away. The brothers are of a similar height as well, though Theseus appears taller only because he does not stoop the way Newt does. His eyes, however, are entirely his own. Where Newt’s are verdant and bright, Theseus’s are a cool blue.

“Right on time!” exclaims the shapes of Theseus’s lips before they stretch into a wide, warm smile as he drags Newt into a tight embrace. His demeanor is cheerful, pleased, and only a little bit tired, but that’s typical of anyone who works as an Auror. Theseus’s magic is powerful, Percival can taste the strength of it as a slight bitterness on the back of his tongue, and it carries notes of copper and clay.

Percival misses the majority of Theseus’s exchange with Newt, but the strained expression of attempted pleasantness on Newt’s face tells him everything he needs to know. Then Theseus turns to him.

“Percival Graves, I presume?” he asks, though he most assuredly already knows the answer.

“Yes,” says Percival, playing the game of social niceties with the grace of a long-time professional. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Theseus Scamander, the pleasure is mine,” says Theseus, entirely earnest. Percival refrains from mentioning that they have met before. It was such a fleeting moment so long ago and in a time of such despair.

Theseus goes on, “My fiancée, Leta, will be along shortly. She sent word ahead that she’s been held up at the Ministry.”

Percival chuckles. “Isn’t that always the case with government jobs? Nothing happens until you have somewhere you’d like to be.”

“Quite right,” agrees Theseus with a laugh. Then he waves them further into the room, towards the sofa and armchairs sat around the coffee table. Percival catches, “ _Come in, sit_ ,” before he loses sight of the other man’s face, so he looks to Newt for assistance. Newt has a wry expression as he shakes his head briefly and signs, _We’re having tea while we wait_.

Percival touches his fingers to his lip and lowers his hand, palm up, towards Newt. He follows after the brothers a touch slower, still acclimating to his new prosthetic leg and using his cane for extra support. Once he is fully accustomed to the new feel of his body, Percival anticipates being entirely free of walking aids for the foreseeable future.

Ahead, he can see the slight movements of Theseus’s ears and bit of motion around his jaw, indicating the elder Scamander is still speaking. He wonders if Newt forgot to mention to his brother that Percival is deaf or if Theseus merely forgot and needs reminding. Either way, Percival expects the realization will happen quite soon; if not with Theseus than with the arrival of Leta Lestrange.

Newt answers this silent question when Percival glances over and the magizoologist casts his eyes briefly skyward in the universal display of exasperation. He _has_ informed Theseus, Percival interprets, and more than once, too. Percival smirks in return.

Percival sits beside Newt on the sofa while Theseus flicks his wand towards, presumably, the kitchen and summons a loaded tea trolley. Despite his preference for coffee, Percival has learned to appreciate tea for what it is—which, to him, is a cup of hot water with a leafy flavor—and accepts the cup offered to him out of politeness. Newt gives him an understanding, vaguely grateful, smile as he passes the cup along to his lover. Theseus then settles in the armchair across from his younger brother, which has the added benefit of placing him in optimum viewing position for Percival to read his lips.

“Yes,” the elder Scamander says abruptly, answering Newt’s unheard question, “I thought it would be good if she became part of the Ministry family.”

Percival sees Newt’s chin duck awkwardly as he snorts, expressing how amusing and ridiculous he finds that phrasing to be. While Percival agrees with Newt on some level, that stating it so bluntly is a bit silly, he also understands what Theseus means. You can’t help but form a familial sort of bond with the men and women who fight and would risk their lives alongside you for years on end. Private as he may be, Percival trusts his Aurors with his life and knows they feel the same for him. Or, at least, they _did_ at one point. Over the course of the last year, that trust has been shaken and shattered in both directions. Hopefully, with time, it can be earned back.

“Don’t laugh,” admonishes Theseus, though there is a glimmer of humor in his eyes, “Percival knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you, Percival?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly, but yes,” he agrees, “I get it.”

“How would you put it, then?” asks Theseus, appearing genuinely curious.

Percival ponders for a moment and then replies with an upward quirk to his mouth, “For starters, we don’t call ourselves a ministry in America. And considering the number of fresh recruits we’ve recently taken it, it’s more of a… _congressional daycare_.”

Percival sees a great amount of relief in Theseus when the man bursts into startled laughter. The elder Scamander had not expected Percival to be in any way funny; he likely only had whatever official reports he could gain access to and the words of his smitten younger brother to base his judgment of Percival’s character. Percival can only imagine the impression official reports leave of him: staunch, serious, unyielding, all manner of adjectives that tend not to describe a caring, conscientious partner. His concern is touching, but it also reveals a certain level of mistrust in Newt’s judgment and decision-making.

Percival thinks he is beginning to understand the exact nature of the complexity of the brothers’ relationship.

Theseus jumps up abruptly, expression brightening in a way that can only mean he has just heard his beloved enter the apartment. Percival turns to Newt and finds his lover withdrawing into himself from the force of his nerves. Percival places a firm, comfortable hand on Newt’s knee, squeezes from half a moment, then stands and offers that same hand to Newt. Newt accepts with a smile and allows Percival to draw him to his feet and together, fingers interlaced, they follow Theseus to greet Leta in the other room.

The first thing Percival observes about Leta Lestrange is that she is beautiful: short and slim and finely featured with warm brown skin and perfectly styled hair. Her scant touch of makeup accentuates her plush lips, elegant cheekbones, and keen eyes. But then he watches her greet Theseus with a clutching hand at the back of his neck and greedy series of kisses and he sees her for what she is. Leta Lestrange is a woman harboring a desperate secret that is eating her alive; a secret she has carried with her for years and feels she can no longer contain, but is terrified to reveal. If Theseus were not so blinded by his love for her, he might notice this about his fiancée and offer her relief, but such is sadly not the case.

When Leta releases Theseus from her grasp—an action done with some reluctance, fingers trailing adoringly along the elder Scamander’s jaw—she turns to Newt and a new sort of energy comes over her. A deep, platonic affection and a faint underscore of guilt, though her wide, earnest smile hides the latter well. With Newt’s impressive level of acuity, honed by a lifetime of working with beasts, however, Percival thinks his love may see past that smile just as he does. Percival would also wager that whatever happened between Newt and Leta so many years ago is something she, to a degree he has no way to measure, regrets.

Secrets and ill-experiences aside, Leta minds Newt’s dislike for physical contact and does not pull him into an embrace the way Theseus did. Instead, she clasps her hands carefully before her and beams delightedly at him.

“Hello, Newt,” she says. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Percival doesn’t look at Newt to read his response, he chooses instead to watch Leta’s face as she interacts with her childhood friend. Aside from a slight tightness at the corners of her eyes, Leta remains relaxed and genuine and Percival is convinced that she is true in her affection for Newt. He surmises that whatever secret is twisting her up inside has nothing to do with his magizoologist and is quickly reassured of her renewed presence in Newt’s life.

“This must be the beau we’ve been hearing about,” she shapes, turning her attention on Percival. He is amused to find her scrutinizing him, as if she has the right to judge him and deem him worthy or unworthy of Newt’s attention.

“Percival Graves,” he introduces himself, intending to keep his tone light and friendly and only mostly certain that he succeeds. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,” she says, holding out her hand and shaking his firmly. “You’re an Auror, yes? Theseus tells me your job is something of a parallel to his.”

“I can’t claim to know the details of Theseus’s job, but I am an Auror,” replies Percival. “I’m also the Director of Magical Security and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Flickering movement draws his eye to Theseus, who is mid-tease, “—dating a trouble-maker like Newt?”

“For nearly a year now,” Percival confirms, rather than step into the joke and make Newt more uncomfortable than he already is. Newt shoots him a grateful look and flicks his eyes pointedly at Leta. Percival gives Newt a quick smile and returns to facing Leta; she has that scrutinizing look on her face again.

“Tell me, Mr. Graves,” she says and her use of formality is striking and intentional, “do you always stare at people’s lips when they talk or is it just pretty girls and pretty boys that have that privilege?”

“I do,” says Percival, smirking slowly. Leta is keen and he is impressed. “But you are the first to ever speak up about it.”

“Really,” she says, flatly _un_ impressed with him. “Would that be because you primarily interact with subordinates too afraid to protest and Newt who loves you too much to say anything?”

Percival doesn’t have to look to know that Newt is bristling; he can feel the prickling of Newt’s magic that rises whenever Newt becomes defensive.

“I’m sure my Aurors and colleagues are either too polite or too nervous in my presence to inquire,” Percival agrees neutrally, “but I’m certain Newt would speak up for himself were he not aware of my reason for doing so.”

“And what reason is that?” Leta asks challengingly and, oh, Percival is beginning to like her. She reminds him of Tina with her fire and convictions; he thinks briefly that the two women would get along famously.

“That I am deaf,” Percival says simply, allowing himself to smirk with open amusement at the shocked widening of Leta’s eyes. “I use lipreading to communicate.”

Leta stares in shock, her cheeks taking on a pinkish tinge, then pivots on her heel and smacks Theseus’s chest. Her jaw is working furiously, but Percival is not familiar enough with her to read her words, so he turns to Newt for assistance.

For the first time since they arrived, Newt is smiling. He beams at Percival, radiating good humor, and signs, _She’s berating him for not telling her before she embarrassed herself. He is saying her forgot and she does not believe him._

Percival chuckles. Theseus comes to face him then, expression contrite as he says, “I’m terribly sorry for the offense…”

Percival waves him off. “No apologies necessary,” he says. “I’m not offended in the least. I make a point of being as inconspicuous as possible. And in the interest of avoiding a repeat of this little incident, I should warn you before either of you make a joke about pulling legs that one of mine is fake.”

Percival gently tugs the right leg of his trousers up a tad, just enough to expose the smooth wooden ankle that peaks out from the top of his shoe. Leta breaks into peals of laughter; hand pressed to her heart and her head tipped back, eyes squinting with the width of her grin. For whatever it is worth, Percival knows that he has just won the approval of Leta Lestrange. Newt is glowing with glee at his side and Percival re-laces their hands to squeeze Newt’s fingers fondly.

Grinning, Theseus holds his hand out for one of Percival’s, which he bemusedly supplies, and the redhead clasps it in both of his. “Brilliant,” he says. “Brilliant! And I hope this isn’t terribly rude to say, but your diction and enunciation is impeccable.”

Percival pats Theseus’s hands with his free one and says sincerely, “I don’t mind. Enunciation tends not to be affected when you lose your hearing at an older age and I’ve only been deaf for a year now.”

“And you’ve maintained your position as Department Head,” says Theseus. It is phrased like a question, but without being able to hear the upward pitch that usually denotes a question, Percival has to rely on facial expressions and Theseus’s expression is not curious. Instead, he appears interested and impressed. And a touch dubious.

Not at him, Percival suddenly realizes, when Theseus gestures for everyone to sit around the table and he catches the elder Scamander glancing at this younger brother. As he takes a seat kitty-corner to Newt at the little square table in Theseus’s kitchen, Percival thinks that, for a Senior Auror and war hero, Theseus can be incredibly thick. Leta sits across from Newt and Theseus across from Percival, though the man doesn’t sit before he summons the completed roast and flicks his wand to dish out portions. The roast smells incredible and Percival is suddenly ravenously hungry. Newt catches his attention and signs to ask if he’d like a beverage other than water, but Percival declines. Since his second turn in captivity and his second stay at St. Agatha’s, Percival has felt no desire to drink even socially. At first it was to avoid ill-effect with all the medicinal potions he took, but it became habit with surprising ease.

While he eats, Percival lets the others chat and laugh around him, content with the silence of his world and the sight of their merry faces. With good food in front of him and a visceral reason to delay a response, Newt’s shoulders remain free of tension and his smile comes with quick ease. From the brief shapes and hand gestures he catches, Percival is able to follow the general thread of conversation—Theseus’s work, Leta’s induction into the Ministry, Newt’s travels. Then, abruptly, Daphne noses her way free from Percival’s pocket and stretches out in a bid for his plate.

Abrupt motion attracts Percival’s eye to the hand Leta brings up to her heart as her lips shape a startled, “ _Oh my_!” Then she drops the instinctual tension that comes with surprise and laughs openly.

“I might’ve known,” she says, beaming at Newt and then looking knowingly at Percival. “You’re like Newt, then. Strange creatures are attracted to you as well.”

Percival chuckles and looks fondly at Newt as he quotes, “There are no strange creatures…”

Newt’s returning smile falters a touch and his eyes go to Leta. Percival follows and watches as she finishes the quote with him, “Only blinkered people.”

Leta goes on, “How long did you get detention for saying that to Professor Prenderghast?”

Newt shrugs, one corner of his mouth lifting in a careless half-smile, “I think it was a month that time.” Implying that he was given detention for a multitude of other reasons, Percival observes amusedly.

“And then I set off a dung-bomb in his desk to join you, do you remember?” Leta asks eagerly, eyes glowing with humor.

But Newt… Newt’s expression shutters and his mouth twists into something almost apologetic and very nearly bitter. “No, I,” he says uncomfortably. “I don’t.”

Leta’s face freezes, caught mid-transition from joyous to crestfallen, then flashes with guilt. Percival looks to Theseus, who has watched this interaction silently, and he finds the other Auror is observing the two of them much like he has been. Except Theseus’s interest lies more heavily on Newt, perhaps for much the same reason Percival’s focus is on Leta. Theseus assumes he has a complete understanding of who Leta is and knows everything of her childhood, so he watches Newt for discrepancies because he knows Newt’s tendency to understate and gloss over unsavory, often vital, details.

Percival does not have this same assumption of Newt, he knows there are things Newt does not tell him and he respects Newt’s choice to keep some aspects of his life to himself. Perhaps one day Newt will share them, when he feels ready, if he ever chooses to, but Percival will always give him that choice. Percival knows the fundamentals of _who_ Newt is based on what he sees, what he is told, and what he is _not_ told.

Given the weight that sits like a mantle shackled to Leta’s shoulders, Percival is inclined to believe that she is re-imagining past events to soothe her guilt. This is merely a theory, of course, and he would need to speak to her one on one in order to confirm anything, but his trust in Newt is absolute and so he feels fairly confident in this deduction.

What he is not sure of is what issue Theseus seems to have with Newt’s side of their relationship.

In the meantime, no one has spoken or done anything to relieve the awkward tension that grips the table. So, Percival clears his throat and addresses Theseus, “Has Newt mentioned that his book is now on the recommended reading list at Ilvermorny?”

He glances at Newt and receives a tiny, grateful smile. Then Newt latches onto the change of subject and says, “Yes, and the other American school on the west coast has just sent a formal request for copies for their library. They’ve also asked if I would come do a lecture for students interested in magical beasts.”

This last tidbit Percival did not yet know and pride blooms in his heart. Daphne nudges his attention to Theseus and he catches the elder Scamander saying, “—excellent, Newt. You must be very pleased. Perhaps you can mention the availabilities in the Ministry’s Beasts Division while you’re there. Unless, ah, MACUSA has a need for them instead,” he tacks on a touch awkwardly.

Percival placidly replies, “We don’t have a specific division just for the handling of magical creatures. All of my Aurors have read Newt’s book front to back and usually take advantage of his availability around the office if they desire advice on how to safely handle any creatures they encounter on the job.”

Theseus’s response is a polite, if strained, “How nice.”

Percival meets Newt eye and winks before returning his focus on his meal and feeding Daphne slivers of roast between his own bites. Newt bites his lip briefly to suppress a laugh and digs in once more. The rest of dinner passes with minimal, courteous conversation. When their plates are empty and their stomachs full, Percival’s offer to help clean up is thoroughly rebuked on the basis of his being a guest. Theseus and Leta flick their wands and send the dishes away in a beautifully choreographed dance to the sink. Rather than watch the parade of rinsing, washing, drying, and putting away, Percival excuses himself to the restroom.

When he is finished and is still in the short stint of hallway that will return him to the sitting room, he sees the Scamander brothers with their heads bowed together in conversation. From his position, Percival can see through to the kitchen, though the open doorway gives him only a sliver of Newt’s face. But he can see all of Theseus’s and he does not like what he is reading on the elder’s lips.

“—not one of your wounded creatures,” Theseus is saying and Percival can see Newt biting hard on his lower lip. “You cannot keep him in your case or expect him to always be waiting when you return from traveling. A man in his position—”

Percival forces himself to look away. He needs to stop this now. Anger simmering under his skin, Percival strides down the hall with every intention of shutting Theseus down. He is not prepared to Leta to step out in front of him. He comes to an abrupt, nearly unbalanced, halt and blinks down the small, powerful woman. She is full of determination and fire and Percival knows he cannot just blow her off.

“Yes, Leta?” he inquires.

“Newt is my friend,” she says, apropos of seemingly nothing and Percival’s eyebrows lift to his hairline. “He is very dear to me, though it may not seem so—”

“Because he never speaks of you and is clearly uncomfortable with your relationship with his brother?” Percival cannot help but interject with a trace of sardonicism. Leta purses her lips agitatedly, but is undeterred for long.

“Admittedly there are things I wish I had done better during our childhood, but he was still my best friend and I care for him. Even if he were only the younger brother of my fiancé, I would care for him dearly. He’s a gentle soul, you must understand, and I need to know that you will be good to him.”

Percival sighs. All the anger is drained from him. Newt is certainly a product of his upbringing, both at home and at school.

“Leta,” he says with heavy earnestness, “Newt may have a gentle soul, but he is by no means a helpless person. It baffles me that no one seems to realize just how powerful Newt is. I have profound respect for him and for his many talents as a wizard. _However_ —” he stresses this word because it seems Leta might try to interrupt— “I do not feel I ought to be the one called into question here. You say there are things you regret about your past with Newt, but you must know that you cannot assuage that guilt by making up better versions of the truth. You have to face whatever it is you have done and accept the consequences.”

Leta’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “How…? What do you know?”

“Nothing at all,” Percival assures her. “Without my hearing, I am forced to rely heavily on visual observation and I knew the moment I looked at you that there is a great weight on your shoulders. You need to let go of it before it crushes you. I would recommend talking to Theseus, Morgana knows the man is so besotted he could never find fault in you. If you feel that’s too much, go to a therapist. Hell, tell _me_ if you truly need a neutral, unaffiliated listener. I don’t care. But a witch as strong as you needs a clear conscience, because eventually that guilt will start to manifest itself in ways that cannot be ignored.”

“You know this from experience?” asks Leta. Her expression is sharp and defensive, but he doubts her tone portrays the attitude she is aiming for.

“I do,” says Percival, unbothered, and holds Leta’s flinted gaze until she eventually wavers and nods curtly. After a moment, he adds, softly, “I will always take care of Newt, to the best of my ability and to whatever extent he allows. You have my word.”

Leta doesn’t smile, but her expression softens and her rigid posture loosens. She shapes a gentle, “Thank you.”

Seconds later, Newt marches into the room and grabs Percival’s arm for his attention. “It’s late,” the redhead says with a storm brewing behind his eyes. “We ought to return home now.”

“Of course, darling,” Percival agrees easily. He strokes Newt’s cheek and Newt sighs against his palm. Percival looks to Leta, “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“A pleasure to meet you as well,” she replies. To Newt, she says, “I’d like to write you, every now and then, just to talk. Is that alright?”

Newt’s eyebrows lift in surprise, but her genuineness is obvious. He dips his chin in a brief nod and says, “Yes, that’s. I’d like that.”

Relief is palpable in Leta’s responding grin and she has to clasp her hands together in front her to keep from hugging the magizoologist. Percival looks around for Theseus, but the man is nowhere in his line of sight, though he can feel the copper and clay of his magic loitering in the kitchen.

“Tell Theseus ‘good night’ for us,” Percival bids before placing a hand on Newt’s lower back and guiding him to the fireplace. One last glance over his shoulder shows him Leta watching them go with something like nostalgia. Then Newt takes a pinch of Floo powder and sends them spiraling home.

 

\- - -

 

Newt goes immediately to the basement door when they step away from the fireplace. He pauses, though, when he remembers that all his creatures have been settled in for the night and visiting them now might disrupt the schedule they are so accustomed to. Percival takes advantage of this pause by softly calling Newt’s name and then reaching out to tug his lover into his arms. Newt goes easily, leaning into the embrace with a sigh that tickles Percival’s throat, and wraps his own arms about the American Auror’s waist.

They stand like this for a long while.

Eventually, Percival draws back and leads Newt by the hand up the stairs and into their bedroom. Silently, Newt allows himself to be manipulated out of his clothes and into his pajamas, giggling helplessly when Percival lets his fingers linger over his ticklish spots. Percival nudges Newt onto the bed and then changes into his own sleep clothes. Daphne creeps free of his vest pocket and stretches out to nudge his cheek with her beak before she takes wing towards the stairs, likely to join her friends in the basement menagerie. Then Percival sits on the edge of the bed, murmurs _crura disiuncta_ , and levitates his false leg to rest beside the armoire.

With a bit of scooting and adjusting, Percival manages to turn himself around to face Newt, who is leaning against the pillows piled against the headboard. Sitting face to face now, Percival can see the old frustration and weariness in his bright green eyes. Whatever argument he engaged in with Theseus while Percival was in the restroom contained tired dialogue from past conversations.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asks.

Newt shakes his head and then, after a brief pause, says, “Theseus offered me a job at the Ministry in his department. Again.”

Percival frowns. “That…doesn’t sound like a good fit. Not for you.”

“If you can explain that to Theseus in a manner he understands, please do, because I’m tired of trying.”

“Simply telling him you’re happy with your current occupation isn’t enough?” Percival asks, incredulous.

Newt huffs, eyes rolling briefly upward, and the action reads bitter humor. “He considers my current occupation to be more of a very involved hobby than viable employment. It’s an opinion he shares with our mother.”

Percival’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Doesn’t your mother breed fancy hippogriffs?”

The expression on Newt’s face assures him the irony is not lost. “Yes, but hippogriffs are valuable and significant by their own right. Studying and maintaining their bloodlines is noble work. Studying and protecting any and every beast that roams the earth is,” Newt’s expression twists in a sneer his tries to suppress, “a waste of time.”

Percival snorts and says bluntly, “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. Dare I ask what your father thinks of all this?”

Newt shrugs. “Theseus is an Auror and a war hero _and_ he is now engaged to a woman from a prominent pureblood family, estrangement be damned. My father couldn’t care less what I do with my time. That’s not to say he doesn’t care about me, we get along fine and he does sometimes offer me support, he just… You see, Theseus was already a Junior Auror with the Ministry by the time I started Hogwarts. As far as my father was concerned, he had what he wanted in his eldest son, so I could do as I pleased. Nothing I did could truly disappoint him, because he, well.”

Newt casts for the words, so Percival fills in, “He put more stock in what your brother did?”

“Yes.” Newt’s mouth is twisted in a strange impression of a smile. It’s a smile that displays a lifetime torn between one parent who cares too much about his future and one who does not care enough.

Percival sighs, his heart aching for his magizoologist, and wishes there was more than paltry condolences he could offer. “Newt, darling…”

Newt gives him a wobbly half-smile. He seems to have more to say, but needs a moment to steady himself before pressing on. Percival takes Newt’s hands in his and waits. He is not left waiting for very long.

“Earlier, Theseus compared you to one of my creatures,” he says, “which is insulting in so many different ways, I can’t even start to explain.” Newt shakes his head. “He has always been under the impression that my compulsion is to take in wounded strays and keep them, rather than rehabilitate and release them.”

“He apparently also thinks I’m like a wounded creature,” Percival says dryly, entirely unimpressed with this estimation of himself. “Your creatures are wonderful, of course, and you’re work is very impressive, but Theseus makes it seem as though I am defenseless and at your mercy.”

“I think so, too,” Newt agrees. “His perception of me is…outdated. He tends to only remember all the times I’ve been in trouble or made a poor choice. I could be more skilled in wandless magic than _you_ are, love, and Theseus would still question every decision I make.”

Percival chuckles a bit. “That I can assure you is a symptom of being an older brother. Roland has created nearly dozen useful potions over the course of his career, but I still take every possible opportunity to remind him of all the cauldrons he’s melted with his experiments.”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t refuse to ever use his potions or belittle his skill based on all his mishaps,” says Newt.

Percival concedes the point with a tip of his head. “Your brother does seem particularly stubborn when it comes to his opinion of you.” He almost adds, _and of Leta_ , but he thinks that may be a conversation for another time—perhaps even a conversation that ought to happen without him, with only Newt and Leta.

Newt huffs and adjusts the pillows behind him so he can melt down onto the mattress and stick his feet in Percival’s lap. Percival obliges the unspoken request, picks up one of his love’s feet and begins to knead the calloused soles. Newt sighs; he is now staring quietly at the ceiling, indicating that he is weary of this topic and no longer wishes to discuss it. That’s okay, he has that right and Percival will honor it. For now, he rubs Newt’s feet and watches those long lashes flutter against pale, freckled cheeks.

After a few minutes, Percival lightly drags a fingernail along the arch of Newt’s left foot. Newt spasms and yanks his foot out of Percival’s gentle hold. He sits up, shoulders shaking and expression bright as he laughs.

“You menace,” he shapes through a smile. Percival shifts to stand somewhat awkwardly on his knee and stump so he can shuffle to straddle Newt’s hips; the process is not painful on his amputation site, it is just highly ungraceful. He cups Newt’s jaw and pulls him in for a long, slow kiss, letting his tongue slip out for a taste. His other hand rests lightly on the crook of Newt’s neck, thumb resting with feather-light pressure over his throat, feeling for vibrations.

The hand on Newt’s jaw slides up into his hair and tugs, just a bit, and Percival feels Newt groan against the pad of his thumb. Newt’s hands are clutching the front of his sleep-shirt, bunching the fabric in his fists as he presses into the kiss.

Percival breaks away first, though he has to lean back quite a bit more than he expected as Newt follows him to keep contact as long as he can. Percival strokes through Newt’s hair soothingly, drags his fingertips along Newt’s regal cheekbone, and places a series of chaste kisses to that plush lower lip.

“I just,” Percival says between pecks, “want you to know,” a few more, “that I wouldn’t mind,” a slightly longer, but still close-lipped kiss, “being at your mercy.”

Newt inhales sharply. He leans back, untangles one hand from Percival’s shirt, and smooths his palm over Percival’s cheek. He stares at the older man with starlit wonder in his eyes, lips parted as he breathes heavily, pupils blown wide. Calloused fingertips trace over Percival’s right eyebrow, follow the line of his nose, trip from his upper lip to the lower lip, and slide off the point of his chin. Newt’s fingers come back up briefly to touch the prominent freckle on Percival’s left cheek, then he leans in to kiss that very spot. Percival can’t help the silly smile that comes over his face.

Abruptly, Newt throws his weight against Percival’s left side, using the absence of his right leg to force Percival to fall sideways and then pushes him onto his back. Now Newt is straddling Percival’s hips with a wide, hungry grin on his beautiful face.

“At my mercy, you say?” asks Newt, expression mischievous and full of delicious promise.

“And entirely defenseless,” Percival confirms. Heat is coiling in his lower belly and his heart is beginning to race. It isn’t often that Newt decides he wants to take charge during sex, but Percival desperately enjoys it and savors every time that he does. Then Newt banishes Percival’s shirt and soon after, all coherent thought slips away.

 

 

(Much later, when the sun has risen and Percival sits with his morning coffee and his occamy on his shoulder, he will watch Newt flit about the kitchen as he prepares special breakfasts for his creatures and he will smile. He will think that it’s a damned shame the Scamander family doesn’t seem to realize how marvelous Newt is, how utterly perfect and brilliant. He will think how Newt deserves a family that will cherish him for who he is and then he will have something of an epiphany. Percival will watch Newt and remember how much his own mother and father adore the other man, how his own brother often asks after Newt in his letters. Percival will watch Newt and he will understand with sudden, immense clarity just how perfectly his magizoologist fits among the Graveses…

Percival will sip his morning coffee and mentally draft a letter to his father, asking after a very specific family heirloom; a ring, in fact.)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone! ♡


End file.
